


my lover's the sunlight

by helenecixous



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9769916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: a collection of fluffy bonnalise drabbles





	1. so lucky so strong so proud

Annalise tells you not to thank her. Tells you that she didn't save you, that she didn't do anything, that you owe her nothing. And it does take you a while, but eventually you stop thanking her and you start loving her. You love her when she yells at you and when she cries to you and when she rings you at three in the morning because she needs some paperwork, or when she's drunk and barely coherent but she's breathing into the phone and she's murmuring words that mean nothing to you, but you always find yourself curled up in bed with your mobile pressed to your ear so hard that it hurts, and you listen like she's telling you the answers to the universe, like she's God Herself.

“I do love you,” she says one night, and it's so late that the sky is beginning to pale. “You know that, don't you? Bonnie? You do know that?”

You'd heard the sheets rustling as she turns over, and you'd have given your right arm and your very soul to be there in bed with her. “I know,” you whisper, your eyes closed. You've been on the phone with her for five hours, listened to her tell you about how she'd gotten into university - a story you've heard a thousand times over but still love - and she'd asked you, quietly, about your life, and there had been lapses of silence where you'd just listened to each other breathe.

“You should sleep,” she says, after a second, and you inhale. 

“It's okay, I can stay awake with you. Really.”

“Bonnie,” she chastises. “You need to- to sleep. You don't get enough.”

You say nothing, and then: “are you going to sleep?”

A pause. “Yes. No.” A sigh. “I'm going to try.”

You almost offer to come over, to start the day of work right now if she wanted you to. You want her to need you, you want her to admit to you that she's lonely, that she's grown to despise that big empty house and her big empty bed, and you want to be the solution that you offer. You want to hold her and be held by her and to be able to kiss her awake, two steaming mugs of coffee in your hands.

“Are you having trouble again?” you ask her, fingering the corner of your duvet. “Annalise? Because if you are, you can go back to the- to the doctors. I'll go with you, if you want.”

She doesn't begrudge that, to your surprise, and when she replies there's not even a trace of a bite in her voice. “I might. If it doesn't sort soon.”

You nod, relieved, and try to figure out how to end the call without your stomach sinking and your lungs collapsing in on themselves as you turn over to face the wall so you aren't confronted by your cold and empty bed.

“Are you tired?” she asks, and sleep has roughened the edges of her tone. You can almost see her - her blinks getting slower and more deliberate, her liquid brown eyes warm, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“Not really.”

She pauses, and then sighs. “Will you come over?” she murmurs, and you hear her turn over again. “You don't have to.”

Your eyes are stinging, and you look up to the window to wince at the candyfloss clouds. It's got to be about four in the morning, and she's probably got a list of things she wants you to do that's as long as your arm.

“I asked Frank to tell the kids to take the day off. What with all their bitching about exams coming up, I'm sure it won't go amiss.”

You blink. “Don't we need them, Annalise?”

“Right now,” she says. “All I need, want, and have any interest in, is you. Bonnie? Please?”

She isn't drunk, and neither are you, and you can't quite get your head around that. She wants, what? A day off with you? A lie in? Breakfast in bed?

You consider it for all of thirty seconds, and then sit up, ignoring the way your hands are shaking slightly and your stomach is swooping and twisting. “I'm coming,” you say, smiling.

“Good,” she says, and you hear the soft triumph in her voice. “Bring some ice cream, will you? I want a movie night tonight and I'm out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from hear you me - jimmy eat world


	2. (i'll love you) til the end of the world

“What are your boundaries?” she asks, pouring you a vodka and sliding it over the desk to you.

“My boundaries?” You're drunk on the air, on the way she's looking at you, and you've not even touched the vodka yet.

“How far are you willing to go for this job?”

_ Willing and able to go as far as I must,  _ you think, knocking back the shot.  _ Willing to push through my boundaries and surpass your expectations and able to shatter the very fabric of the universe.  _ You'd rearrange the stars for her, because the weight of her silent encouragements and expectations are enough to enable you to do anything.

She's pouring you another shot, and you imagine standing up, leaning over the desk, taking her face into your hands and kissing her. You'd kiss her softly until she tangled her fingers through your hair and then you'd be a goner. Your hands would be everywhere, there'd be blood on your tongue and you both would -  _ could,  _ you  _ could _ do that right now  _ \-  _ take each other apart right there, with vodka in your blood and fire in your veins.

“I'll go as far as it takes,” you hear yourself saying, and watch as she throws back a double shot without so much as flinching. “You know that, Annalise.”

Sometimes she just likes to hear you say it.

She lifts her chin defiantly as she watches you, and you think she looks like she's daring you silently, and your mind slips back to how you'd like to feel her skin warm against your palms and wet against your fingertips. You want her to let you love her.

She doesn't need to ask you any more questions, hadn't needed to ask you in the first place. You've killed for her and she knows as well as you do that you'd do it again in half a heartbeat, and you know that she'd do exactly the same for you. You're two sides of the same fucked up, and god, you want to kiss her so badly it's driving you mad.

She kicks off her heels and sighs, standing up and stretching. The desk lamp throws her into a soft gloom and you almost laugh because she looks as angelic as she had the first time you met her, before you learnt what she was capable of - before you learnt what  _ you  _ were capable of.

Wordlessly, she invites you to the sofa, and wordlessly you follow, and the vodka stays on the desk.

“What do you want?” she asks, once she's settled with her legs curled beneath her. She's looking at you with dark, dark eyes, and you know she means  _ what will you take? What will you give? _

You look at her and you know your want is written all over your face.

“What are your boundaries, Bonnie?” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from nick cave


	3. the violent bear it away

“You’re exhausted.” It’s not a question.

You look up from your laptop, take a second to suss out what Annalise wants you to say to that, and you’re caught off guard by the way she’s looking at you - softly, like she’s worried, and worried about  _ you,  _ not the case you feel like you’re going to lose.

“I’m okay,” you say, nodding, not sure whether you’re trying to convince yourself or her. In truth, your eyes are stinging and your face is perpetually warm in that way that means you’re seconds away from sleep or tears; sometimes both, and for the past week you’ve stayed up later than even she had, trying to get this case behind you for good.

“Bonnie,” she says, moving towards the desk and closing the laptop lid, ignoring your murmur of protest. “Leave it. It can wait until tomorrow.”

You go to stand, realising that there’s no point in arguing with her. Her hand is flat against the laptop and she’s got her grey jumper on, and there’s never any point in arguing with her, really. She’s all round curves and soft edges, and you realise how late it’d got without you noticing. As you stand, you waver, and she takes your arm, looks at you with that eyebrow raise that can be loosely translated to:  _ I told you so.  _

“You’re not driving,” she says. “Not like this. Get upstairs and run a bath, you can stay here.”

“Annalise,” you say softly, and then she’s steering you towards the stairs, her hand warm against your back.

“I’ll be up with some towels.”

You exhale and let the weight of her concern settle in you, warm and solid and filling you up with a giddy contentment, so much so that you feel your heart may burst out of your chest, that you’ll shatter and pieces of you will settle in her house, scattered like stars, and the collateral damage will be beautiful. Beautiful, like her smile, like the warmth in her eyes and the cruel side of her tongue, like the way her worry and love cradles you and has protected you from yourself since the very first time you stepped into her house.

 

You close the bathroom door behind you and turn on the taps, pour some nondescript and probably extortionately expensive oil into the tub, before you sit down on the lid of the toilet, waiting for the bath to fill and breathing slowly, taking care to appreciate the smell of bluebells that creeps into the air and fills the room to the brim. She’s right; you are exhausted, and you suddenly want nothing more than to climb into the hot water and bathe until you’re ready to sleep, and then you’ll let her put you anywhere - you’d sleep on the floor if she asked you, and it’d probably still be the best sleep you think you’ll ever have.

You strip off slowly, rubbing your waist and ribs where your tights and bra leave angry red marks, and the hot water and the sizeable tub and the bluebell oil is as good as you’d dared to hope. You sink into it with a slow sigh, and you’re not sure how long you lie there for before there’s a tap on the door and it opens.

You sit up, draw your knees up to your chest, and Annalise is already apologising and backing out, her arms full of the fluffiest looking towels you’ve ever seen.

“It’s okay,” you say, smiling at her embarrassment. “Really, it’s alright.”

She crosses the bathroom and puts the towels down and you see that she’s also brought up a bottle of what you think it white wine, and two glasses.

“I lost track of time,” she says apologetically. “Trying to find this.” She gestures to the bottle and smiles sheepishly. “I knew we had it, I just couldn’t remember where it was. I didn’t think you’d already be sorted.”

You watch drops of water fall from your hands silently, before you look up at her, watch her trying to decide what she should do, before you speak.

“Are you okay?” you ask. “You look tired.”

Annalise glances at you, surprised that you want to talk, and then her uncertainty fades and she comes to sit on the edge of the tub, lets her fingertips trail in the water, and talks to you.

 

You stay there until the water goes cold, and she excuses herself to find you some clothes. You step out, and the warmth that’s radiating you isn’t wholly down to the hot water. There’s something about her during these kind of evenings that inspires a kind of comfort right down to your very toes, that takes away each dark thought you have before it’s even had chance to properly form.

You wrap yourself in a dark green towel and slip into her room, where she’s holding out a “phenomenal woman” t shirt, a cardigan, and some joggers. You take them and slip them on while she’s pouring some wine, and then she hands you a glass and climbs onto her bed with a sigh, inclining her head to invite you down too.

So you lay next to her and she opens her arms, pulls you closer and presses a kiss to the top of your head in a rare and totally surprise sign of affection. “Are things bad again?” she whispers, and you hesitate for a second before you nod.

You’ll talk about it properly, one day. About the way you can’t think about your childhood without feeling like your lungs are collapsing, about the way you can’t think about  _ yourself  _ without wanting to scream, but tonight isn’t the night.

Two glasses of wine sit on the bedside, forgotten, and she holds you and you hold her, your hand curved around the dip of her waist, and she holds you so tightly that in your sleep-addled state you can hardly discern where you end and where she begins.

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in her t shirt and her, and god alone knows you’re both absolutely terrible people, who have both done unthinkable things in the name of protection and love, but together you’re just that. For now, you’re just exhausted, and the world and its judgement can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from moby  
> the bath oil bonnie uses is [here](https://www.penhaligons.com/bluebell-bath-oil/?ipc=gb&campaign=google&utm_source=utm_source_google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_content=0065121456&utm_campaign=Bath+Oils&gclid=Cj0KEQiA9P7FBRCtoO33_LGUtPQBEiQAU_tBgNzs2EoIbq5wcAmeWUNeN9pzrI535xJ1p0p-bimjab0aAukc8P8HAQ&gclsrc=aw.ds)  
> the t shirt annalise gives to her is from [this tweet](https://twitter.com/violadavis/status/839550416660525056)


	4. i reach. out and ... touch

She crumbles sometimes, and you know you were never meant to see it. You were never supposed to bear witness to the way she falls, the way she bites back tears with a fury that’s frightening, the way she gives in to the heavy tug that comes from somewhere within her. You weren’t ever supposed see it, and you absolutely were never supposed to be the one who holds her together.

She never planned to unravel into your hands, to let you piece her back together, to close her eyes as you run your fingers through her hair and whisper that it was going to be okay, because you weren’t supposed to  _ know  _ anything. Nothing like this, nothing about her. She never meant for you to become the only person she trusts; you, the person she pushes and pushes and pushes to breaking point, over and over and over again - it was never supposed to be you.

You were written into her life to stay on the periphery, you were supposed to watch, and it was designed to hurt. Not designed by her hand, perhaps, but she was never supposed to get close enough that you could reach out and touch her, to find places of her that even Sam couldn’t. You weren’t supposed to break down her barriers - they’re there and they’re so solid and infallible that you were never supposed to even entertain the idea that one day you could crack them, bring them down, climb over the destruction and find her there in the middle of it all.

And you weren’t supposed to stay. You were meant to heed her warnings - that she’s dangerous, and that she’ll break you, that she’ll take and take and take from you until there is nothing at all left. You were supposed to leave, to back off, to let her rebuild with her trembling hands.

It takes her months to realise that she doesn’t know how to put them back, because vulnerable isn’t a word that was coined for her. The concept of fragility wasn’t intended to ever fit within the context of her: she’s supposed to play the role of bitch, even to herself.

She tells you one night, when you’re tangled together in a mess of bodies and warm sheets, that she doesn’t know who to be anymore. You suppose it’s too cliché to tell her to be herself, and so you stay quiet, let your silence tell her what you mean as you run your hands over her, feel her scars and creases with your fingertips, your palms finding her bones, the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. Instead, you ask her why she has to be anything.  _ Why does everything have to be planned?  _ you murmur, holding her together with your hands and your words and your unwavering belief in her.

She doesn’t have an answer, except to pull you closer, hold you tighter, as though she’s about to tip and fall from the edge of something huge - of something far bigger than herself, and you’re the only thing in the world that can save her. She’s scared, you know; you’ve both been untethered by the past twelve months, broken away from whatever tenuous tentative grounding you had in the first place, and you’re orbiting disaster with no way down.

It wasn’t ever supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to have fallen in love with her faults, with the way she hurts, and she was never supposed to love you back. You were both supposed to stay as ugly and as lonely as the world you live in, and refuge had never meant safety to either of you before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from touch - troye sivan


	5. this is the moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly NSFW but like not super explicit
> 
> title from rings of saturn - nick cave

You’ve thought about it before, what it would be like to be one of Annalise’s conquests. You’ve thought about what it might change, whether it would last, and sometimes you let yourself imagine that it might. That it might last, that you might be allowed to love her, that you might be loved back. And not in the way that you’re certain that she loves you already - you used to let yourself imagine that one day she could actually be in love with you, in love with you in a way she’s forgotten she could be in love with a person. You’d also imagined that she would fall into bed with you and something between you would shatter, be irreparable, and you’d have no choice but to leave.

It really depends on how nihilistic you’d been feeling on the day.

What you’d not really thought about, though, is how it would be to find yourself in some kind of limbo. And that’s where you are, where you’ve been since she first crowded you up against the fridge and kissed you so hard that you tasted blood. You’re in this weird purgatory, this purgatory where she takes and you give, and it’s unspoken, nameless, and somehow weightless. It doesn’t worry you when she tugs your hair and leaves bruises with her teeth along your collarbones, and it doesn’t worry you when she takes you to bed, when she uses her body to play yours until you’re numb and shivering beneath her, utterly spent.

And you know that it’s just a natural progression; no one should be surprised that after all of the fucked up shit you’ve both done that you’re now sleeping together. What’s weird is that you don’t think it’s love. And you’ve never been one of those people who thinks sex is the most sacred way of expressing love, but this thing between you… it’s carnal. But it’s more than that. But it’s not love. It’s more than sleeping together but it’s not, she means more to you now but she doesn’t, and nothing else has changed at all.

You know that you could just ask her, but there’s a part of you that doesn’t want the answer. If this thing is defined, could it not just dissolve? Would it make you seem overly invested, if it’s just casual sex to her? Or would it make you seem callous if  _ she’s  _ the one that’s invested?

But none of this seems to matter when you’re sitting on the edge of her bed and she’s undressing in front of you - letting her dress pool at her feet before she steps out of it, and you’re reaching for her, pulling her between your legs and kissing every inch of her that you can reach, running your hands over her hips before she starts undressing you too, and then she’s pushing you back against the cold sheets, climbing above you and kissing you so deeply that you can’t think of anything apart from what her fingers are doing.

And then you’re coming undone, riding waves that are white hot, focusing on the pain as her nails break the skin on your hips, focusing on the tenderness of her lips moving against your pulse, the desperation as she whispers to you that you’re beautiful, that you’re so, so, so beautiful. And that’s how it is with Annalise - the passion, the pain, the unbearable softness and vulnerability, all thrown into the same pot and mixed with something that’s totally unique to her.

“I love you,” you finally gasp, her hand still moving between your legs as she kisses the breath from your lungs. You meet her eyes, whimper as she twists her hand a little, and she moves with you, carries you through it, kisses your lips gently, scratches your thigh.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if y'all wanna send me prompts to add to this collection, catch me on tumblr @ http://santiagoblues.tumblr.com !!


	6. footprints in the sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the anon on tumblr who requested annalise and bonnie on the beach!! i hope you like it omg
> 
> title from footprints - sia

Annalise is lost in her head, and you're lost in her. You're sitting on the picnic blanket she'd brought, sunglasses pushed up, your legs stretched out in front of you. And you should be focusing on how your sun-warmed skin feels, on the sound of the waves breaking against the shore, even on the distant sound of children yelling, but one hundred percent of your attention has been stolen by Annalise. Of course it has.

She's walking along the shoreline, and even from where you're sitting you can see the way the bubbles dance between her toes, and you wonder what she's thinking about as she looks out over the vast body of water ahead of her, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Is she thinking about you? Is she thinking of what this little getaway means? Is she trying to figure out why she invited you to work this case with her, why it’s been two days since you both closed it, why you’ve not gone back to Philadelphia yet, why you’re now on the beach with a picnic blanket that she’d packed?

She half turns, flashes you a bright smile and raises a hand in a small wave, which you return, and dearly wish that you’d thought to bring a camera. You’d love to capture the way the sunlight is making her glow, the way the white cardigan that she’s wearing over her red swimming costume is slipping off one shoulder, the way she’s walking - sauntering, like she’s concentrating so hard on feeling every single grain of sand beneath her feet, like she’s savouring the warmth of the sand and the gentle coolness of the sea, like she wants to be totally aware of the way her hair is moving with the breeze, like she wants to commit each beat of her heart to memory.

She turns again, laughs at something that you can’t see, and then beckons you, a little  _ come hither  _ crook of her forefinger, and the way your cheeks heat up so quickly is embarrassing. But you stand, stretch, make your way over to her, and try not to think too much that you’d follow her into the ocean if she asked.

“I used to come here,” she says, falling into step beside you. “When I got the job at Middleton, when work got crazy and Sam got overbearing, I’d drive out here and spend the day just walking.”

“It’s beautiful out here. I’ve never been.”

She glances at you, tucks her hair behind her ear. She smells like sun cream and something like patchouli. “I thought it’d be nice for us to get away for a bit. It’s all a bit…” she pulls a face. “Bleh.”

You laugh, pull your sunglasses down and put them on properly. “I appreciate it. It  _ is  _ all a bit bleh.”

She takes a breath, like she wants to say something more, and then shakes her head imperceptibly. “How’s Asher?” It’s quiet, so quiet that you could pretend to have not heard it over the sound of the waves.

“With Michaela,” you say simply. “Probably still being a douchebag, in his own way.”

“And Frank?”

You look at her for a second, and then out to the sea. “With Laurel. Properly. Finally.”

She makes a little contented hum, and follows your gaze out.

“Nate?” you ask softly, waiting a few seconds before you take the sunglasses back off and look at her evenly. She doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the horizon like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“Gone,” she tells you, nodding.

“Do you miss him?” You don’t know why you’re asking her - you don’t  _ ask  _ Annalise things like this. She picks apart your personal life, gets angry when you sleep with Frank, makes smarmy comments when you date Asher, and you don’t ever return it. You make yourself available for her (and hasn’t that taken you  _ years  _ to admit), available to watch her come home with Nate, available to clean up after he leaves, to buy her ice cream and junk food and tell her with your actions that she’s worth so much more than him. Her with her white hot temper, and her manipulation, and her cold glares and mean tongue. You watch him come back to leave again, rinse, repeat. You tell her with your actions that you love every inch of her, every cruel, stinging comment, and you want every tear as much as you want each laugh. You want her bad days and her good days and all the days in between. But more than that, you want her to realise her worth - you want her to be with somebody who treats her well, and you want her to believe that she deserves that.

“No,” she says softly. “I don’t think so.” She looks at you, and you don’t know whether you shiver because of her smile or the sudden breeze. “I think I’m giving shitty men a rest.”

“I’m glad.”

She laughs, and uses her fingertips to tilt your chin up, and suddenly she’s very close to you. She grazes her thumb over your lips slowly, and you gasp, staying as still as you can, as though any sudden movements or loud noises might somehow shatter this moment that’s coming together. You look up at her, and you can feel the desperation on your face, because you do - you love her so desperately that it physically hurts sometimes, makes an ache bloom in your chest so prevalently that you often expect it to show in some form of bruise along your ribcage.

Annalise just smiles like she knows, pulls you closer and kisses you sweetly, her hand cupping the side of your neck, and she kisses you right there for the whole world to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if y'all wanna send me prompts to add to this collection, catch me on tumblr @ http://santiagoblues.tumblr.com !!


	7. up high in the middle of nowhere

“Movie night?” you ask, softly, waiting a moment before you look up at her and finish your coffee.

Annalise pulls a face, but before she can say no you continue. 

“We're practically done here,” you say. “And the kids and Frank will tie up any loose ends tomorrow. Plus, you still owe me that rewatch of La La Land because you made me sit through a whole season of Brooklyn Nine-Nine.” You pause, and then put on your best  _ please, Annalise _ expression; all wide eyes and half smiles as you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. 

She watches you for a second, rolls her eyes, and then closes her laptop. “Fine,” she says. “But Brooklyn Nine-Nine is actually funny, Bonnie, and you enjoyed it - don't even say that you didn't. I know you bought the next two seasons. Don't try me.”

You grin at her, and you know before she says it that a movie night means wine for her, beer for you, and shitty takeout from the bad chinese takeaway down the street. It also means she'll be staying over (neither of you have tried to broach the Moving In topic, and you've got a sneaking suspicion that she likes spending time at your place for its simplicity, for its domesticity, for the way her house is also her office and yours is for bad food and worse TV), and even though you’ve been dating her for three months already, the thought of evenings like this are still enough to make you grin like the fucking Cheshire Cat and make your heart do silly things.

“Chinese?” she asks, rising from her chair and stretching, and you nod, picking up your car keys.

“Chinese,” you confirm. “Of course.”

 

La La Land, you discover, is really not Annalise’s cup of tea. No matter what food she’s given, no matter how much wine she consumes, no matter how comfortable she gets, she’s just always going to hate Ryan Gosling’s face. At first it’s endearing, soft, funny like she is, and then it’s kind of irritating; she won’t sit still, keeps shifting around and plumping up cushions and refilling her glass until she ends up sitting right up against you, her legs over yours, and you end up leaning into her, and she, finally ( _ finally _ ) settles.

At least, you think she does. That’s until she complains that her hands are cold and they somehow find their way underneath your t shirt, and you hum, surprised, because they’re not cold at all. But now they’re spread over the expanse of your stomach and hips, and her thumbs are moving slowly - grazing over your skin in such a way that you want to shiver, to turn in her arms, and kiss her. But you also really want to watch the film, you want to see what the fuss is about. So you just turn your head, press a chaste kiss to her jawline, and then return your focus to the telly.

And then her lips are on your cheekbone, and then your jawline, and then your neck, that little part behind your ear, and you turn almost involuntarily, habitually, and meet her in a kiss that she deepens instantly. And you could very easily shift and let her distract you completely, god knows she’s done that successfully enough a thousand times before, but you really,  _ really  _ want to watch this fucking film, so you pull away, ignore the way she’s smirking at you, and again turn back to Emma Stone looking affronted, as though she can't believe that you would have the audacity to look away.

“Bonnie,” Annalise whines - she actually  _ whines -  _ and her nails catch on the lace of your bra.

“Annalise,” you return, amused, so fond of her, so completely, irrevocably in love with her that it's actually kind of disgusting, even to you.

Her lips are back on your neck, and you can't suppress the shudder this time, can't stop yourself from leaning into her, can't be annoyed anymore because the hand that's not tracing the pattern of your bra has found its way to your hip.

“You're awful,” you whisper, but your breath is catching and your voice is coming out all funny.

She smirks against your skin as you grope around for the remote and pause the film, and finally turn, press yourself against her and kiss her with the kind of focus and intensity you've known she wanted from the start.

“We're finishing it later,” you breathe against her lips, pushing her t shirt up as you do, and she laughs, lets you kiss her and touch her as she runs her hands through your hair, and you know that that laugh means  _ we'll see.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr anon messaged me thiiiis: "ok so I've just been fantasising about Bonnie and Annalise acting like domestic girlfriends where Bonnie is trying to watch a movie with Annalise but Annalise gets bored so she tries to get out of watching it by distracting Bonnie (kissing --> sex kinda thing)" and this is what happened and i just gotta say it's so fun and that's perfect bc i just recently had 2 write 4000 words in one night for my degree so it's been ACE to have some fun with my wives again so thank you !!!11  
> (message me on tumblr w a prompt/request + you too could be so lucky lmao - http://santiagoblues.tumblr.com/)
> 
> title from tightrope by LP


	8. hold back the melancholy

You excuse yourself to go for a walk, and you’re a little too quiet, it’s a little too dark, a little too late for a walk, and you’ve been a little too fidgety, the bags under your eyes just a little too pronounced. You’ve been able to feel Frank’s lingering gazes, been able to see the questions on his lips all day, and you’ve been able to get away before he’s had chance to form them in a way that makes it obvious that he cares. You know he cares, you just don’t want to talk to him about it this time - you don’t want to go over the same shit, over and over and over and over again. You’ve got nothing to say that you’ve not said a thousand times before, and he’ll have no solutions, no way to fix it. Nothing can change the past. You tell this to yourself and to him, and to Annalise and you’d told Sam; told them all before they had chance to tell you, because you  _ know.  _ So, you excuse yourself softly, make up some bullshit excuse about buying coffee or some such nonsense, and you feel Annalise’s gaze, and know that if you turn around she’ll be watching you with that quiet concern that makes your eyes burn with tears. So you don’t turn around, you just stand up and leave the house as quietly as you can, focusing on trying to close the front door behind you silently instead of the weight that’s settled on your chest, crushing your lungs and grinding your ribs to a fine dust, making it hard to breathe and hard to think and hard to exist.

You don’t even get to the end of the drive when you hear the front door close again, and footsteps hurrying over to you.

“You forgot your bag,” Annalise says quietly, falling into step beside you,

You glance at her, bury your hands in your pockets and tilt your head up to the inky sky, looking for stars, feeling the cold air kiss your cheeks, trying to blink away those insistent tears.

“Hard to buy coffee without your purse.” You look at her and see that she’s not brought it out, not brought anything but her own bag, and she’s watching you carefully.

“I just needed some air,” you say softly, walking with her onto the road and down into town. You focus on the way the headlights of passing cars stretch out and break as they round corners, and you’re thankful for the silence that falls between you both. But thankful, also, for the company.

Eventually, when you start shivering, you look at her and suggest a coffee. She just nods, and you both head to a small coffee shop off the main road, and there’s something about the warm ambience against the cold dark of the city outside that brings you endless comfort.

Annalise buys you both a hot chocolate, and leads you to a table in the corner. When she sits down, she rubs her thighs quickly, trying to warm up as she smiles at you.

“So,” she says, stirring her drink slowly. “Want to talk about it?”

You’re not sure, and you tell her so. You feel a bit better, you say, now that you’ve had time out of the house, and she nods and doesn’t push it.

Outside, it starts to rain, great gusts of wind that drive the rain against the windows so harshly that it’s almost deafening. On the street, people are running, hailing taxis, holding bags and papers and their jackets over their heads as the sky lights up purple with intermittent flashes of lightning. You curl your fingers around the warmth of your mug, and watch Annalise as she watches the storm, and when you finally speak her gaze slides to you seamlessly, as though she was waiting for you - expecting you.

“Thank you for coming?” you say, and even before the words left your lips you knew they’d sound like a question, quiet, like you’d been scared of some kind of rebuttal.

She softens at the edges, like she knows  _ (of course she knows, she always knows)  _ and she rolls her shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “We’re not busy anyway,” she says. “It’s alright.” She looks at you for a moment too long, and you shift in your seat - blushing, feeling it crawl up your neck and spread to your cheeks.

You think of that time she’d kissed you, on a night not unlike this one. When she’d been high on a win, high on victory, on endorphins and triumph, and she’d crowded you against the wall in the hallway outside your flat and had kissed you so insistently that you remember actually being scared that somebody would walk through and you’d both get bollocked for public indecency. She’d not asked to come in, and you’d not offered, and neither of you had brought it up since then. Not that you’d ever really stopped thinking about it; especially now that Sam’s gone, you’d be lying if you tried to convince yourself or anyone else that you’d not been holding out a small sliver of something that might be hope.

“You know I’m here if you need me, right?” she asks, surveying you as she runs her fingertips over the rim of her mug slowly. “No matter how busy we are. And Frank, too. He’s worried.”

You smile, and although it feels foreign it doesn’t feel forced. “I know,” you say. “I’m okay, really. Just a string of bad nights.” You turn to look out of the window, at the cars splashing past. “Maybe it’ll clear up now the weather’s sorting itself out.”

“Maybe,” she muses, and you can read the worry behind her eyes, in the way her lips tighten, in the way she can't keep her fingers still.

You finish your drink and look out again. “We're going to get wet,” you say. 

“I think you're right.” She finishes her and stands up, and when you do she grasps your hand and holds it tight. She looks at you, and there's a lightness, a playfulness in her expression. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

She tightens her grip on your hand, pulls you close, opens the door to the roar of the rain.

“Run!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the anon who requested a drabble with bonnie struggling with her mental health + annalise caring and helping out. sorry if it's a bit shite I'm in a bit of a rut
> 
> title from quiet the mind - iamx


	9. small things

_ Annalise _

She looks up from the files she's reading, finds you with her gaze, and smiles. It's a tiny thing, a flicker, more in her eyes than anything else. You hold her gaze for a second that feels like a year, and then Sam mutters something into her ear and her attention shatters. She turns to look at him and says something you don't hear, and you watch him with ice in your heart but something warm stays there because you know that the softness in her eyes is always reserved for you.

 

You work late, until the sun goes down and her house is lit only by candles and low light lamps, until Sam goes out for drinks with his co-workers and the students go home to study or drink or fuck or sleep, until there's nothing in the house but her and you and the memory of activity.

These moments are your favourite. These sleepy nights that pass so slowly and so unbearably quickly. She brings you coffee or vodka or wine and you thank her with your eyes, with your smile, with a twitch of your thumb that brushes over the back of her hand for a fraction of a second.

It's her birthday, and she's working. Of course she's working, and it annoys you that Sam left and Frank left but you're pleased, in a subdued kind of way, to be the one that remains.

_ It's so quiet _

She stands, puts on some music, something slow and bluesy, and then she sits on the sofa, beckons you over without words.

_ I missed you _ , you think, and she smiles. She knows. She pours some wine and kicks off her heels and leans forward to brush your cheek with the back of her fingers.  _ I missed this _ . 

A car rolls past outside, and the low purr of the engine makes you think of the noises she makes when you two are truly alone, when Sam is away and there's no chance of his return. You question her with your eyes as you lean into her touch.  _ Here? Now? _ and she shrugs, allows her fingertips to trace the curve of your lips. When she pulls them away, there are smudges of your lipstick on them.

Somewhere in the room, your phone buzzes. You hardly notice. Her hand is on your thigh, her fingertips playing with the hem of your dress slowly, unassuming, undemanding, unexpecting. You lean forward and whisper something but the words are lost in the way she is looking at you, in the heaviness of the moment and the tenderness of your love.

_ I wanted to tell you _ , you think, as your hand finds the back of her neck and your lips find her jawline.  _ I wanted to tell you, god I've wanted to tell you for so long _ .

She tilts her head and lets her lips ghost over yours, and now her hand is in your hair and she's running her fingers through it slowly, and you want to pull her toward you and unzip her dress and celebrate her birthday, celebrate  _ her  _ with your body. But not tonight, not when Sam could come back at any second with whiskey on his breath and the ghost of a girl on his dick.

Annalise’s lips are leaving dark smudges of lipstick on your neck and cheeks and you close your eyes and let yourself get lost in her almost-kisses and the scent of her perfume and the tickle of her hair against your cheek.

_ I wanted to tell you tonight.  _

She is so close to you you can feel each hot exhale against your skin, can feel her heartbeat pulsing through you both and you know that yours is beating in perfect tandem. You know that it always will.

_ Happy birthday I wanted to tell you _

She finally meets you in a kiss and you don't know when it happened but one of your legs is thrown over hers and you're straddling her and her arms are around you and she is tracing gentle patterns over your back.

_ Annalise _

You kiss her until it draws you both near to an edge you can't jump from tonight, and then you pull back, breathless, and she leans forward to kiss the corner of your mouth and you understand that for what it is.

 

You're standing on the porch, watching her standing in front of her big empty house. 

“I hope he comes home soon,” you say quietly.

“I don't,” she says. “I wish you could stay.”

You nod, and step up to kiss her one last time. “I wanted to tell you…” you murmur, whispering into her kisses.

“I know,” she tells you. “I love you too. And I love you for showing me.”

You nod again. Of course she knows. You are an open book, and you miss her already.

“See you tomorrow,” is all you say.

She smiles again, and it's a tiny thing, a flicker, more in her eyes than anything else.

“Tomorrow,” she confirms. “Stay longer tomorrow, okay?”

You tell her you will, and you wish her a happy birthday. She kisses your cheek and then you're gone, you're going home, with the taste of wine and kisses on your lips and smudges of lipstick on your neck. 


End file.
